Maestro
by Phantome
Summary: A maestro with too much curiosity and a composer with too much hatred. It was a recipe for disaster…at least so they all thought. No one would have ever thought something extraordinary would become of it. E/C
1. Chapter 1

_A maestro with too much curiosity and a composer with too much hatred. It was a recipe for disaster…no one would have ever thought something extraordinary would become of it._

 _Maestro_

 _A Phantom of the Opera fictional story_

 _All rights belong to those who own the phantom along with hints of ALW._

 _Enjoy._

Her fingers itched as she gathered her papers into a folder. It had been a trying rehearsal, with the new clarinet player and the addition of college students, the orchestra has been disastrous. Multiple times the wind section played ahead and the clarinet player squeaked with nerves. If she had known the orchestra was in this bad of shape, she wouldn't have agreed to take this job.

Christine Daae had been working as a maestro for years. In fact, her tenth year was quickly approaching and she couldn't help but cringe at the wrinkles in her hand. She was a beautiful women, well aware of herself and barely lacking in the art of knowledge. Shimmering brown locks fell around her face in ringlets as the rest stayed slicked back into a bun while blue, doe-shaped eyes glanced at her watch. She considered herself to be rather tall, maybe not as extravagant as some of the other French girls, but her 5'8 frame was acceptable. Her eyes moved to follow the clarinet player as he exited the building. With his face covered by long blonde hair, he could almost pass for a female. She found herself smirking as she quickly gathered her belongings to follow him to his car.

"Monsieur De Chagny!" Her voice lifted through the air. The man gasped and dropped his papers into a scattered mess among the floor. His eyes widened at the sight of her and scrambled around in a desperate move of embarrassment. Christine chuckled to herself and bent down to retrieve his clarinet case as he stood before her in a trembling mess.

"Monsieur, please be at ease. I mean no harm." She offered him a soft smile to which his cheeks lit red.

"I-I apologize for my playing today, Maestro. I find myself to be quite nervous playing with such esteemed professionals." His voice squeaked in pitch and she flinched in response.

"I do not hold your playing accountable today, for I am positive that this entire orchestra is in shambles. We will work on your performance as well as your nerves." She returned his clarinet case to him and glanced behind her. "I suppose I better be going, however, if you wouldn't mind arriving early for rehearsal tomorrow so I can tend to your playing?" His eyes widened and he nodded his head.

"Wonderful. I will see you tomorrow then, Monsieur." She offered a parting smile and made her way towards her own car. Tossing her stuff into the passenger side, she brought her hands together and silently prayed for a better rehearsal tomorrow.

* * *

"Sir, I'm not sure if you are simply nervous, or tone deaf. That is a C and I asked for an E flat. Can you explain to me why you are even in this orchestra?" Her voice bellowed out across the stage. De'Chagny stiffened at her words and quickly hid his face within the curtain of his hair.

"I-I was accepted by your composer." His voice had grown a bit stronger since their lesson had first begun, but Christine found herself being annoyed with his lack of confidence.

"I was not aware that the composer of this orchestra had the liberty to select its individuals." Her words came out much more hissed than she had planned. The boy instantly became frightened and she found herself sighing for the third time. "I do not plan on being rid of you for we desperately need numbers, but you will be required to put in more effort than any other one of those scoundrels. Do I make myself clear, Monsieur?"

"My name is Raoul." His voice rang clearly across the air and she found herself taken back by his new-found courage. His eyes had absorbed a glint in the light and she grinned.

"If you continue to speak with that confidence, I might be able to actually refer to you as that. Until then, earn my respect. Also, either slick back your hair or cut it off with a knife for all I care. I will not have you cowering behind it at every given moment when in my presence, Monsieur. I would prefer it if I can look you as an equal, not a worm." Her eyes lifted expectantly, wanting to elicit some type of reaction from the boy.

His features tightened and he offered a shaky smile, "Yes, Maestro."

She gave an affirmative nod and proceeded with the opening note on the piano.

After her grueling session with the entire orchestra, once more being a complete failure in her book, she decided to speak to the opera's composer. Her heels echoed over the stage and moved towards the manager's office in the back corner of the opera. Christine hadn't spoken to the man since she'd arrive. Apparently, very few people have had a chance to meet him. There were even rumors that his eyes burned yellow when you looked directly at him. Christine let out a laugh at the thought of a measly man burning people's souls with just one look of his eyes. Perhaps his personality would make up for it.

Grant it, the man must be insane for placing such an ignoramus clarinet player in her orchestra. Her eyes narrowing as she peered into the manager's office. Her two managers were currently engaged in a heated debate with the patron of the opera house. It would probably be a few more minutes before they could spare her some time. Her eyes glanced around the backstage area at the new set pieces adjourned along the walls. Her composer may have written the music, but the props were horrendous, as if a group of children painted them. From prior experiences, most props had colors reflecting a mood or feeling, but these were chaotic and messy. The audience was sure to cringe at such a sight. Was the man mad? She would give this play a shot, but if it is anything like she assumed it to be, she may very well have the man's head.

"Ah, Maestro! Please, please, do come in." Andre's face appeared before her and quickly ushered her into the office where Firmin sat rigidly. Christine offered him a smile but found herself staring at a blank face. His eyes fixated on the wall behind her.

"Pardon me, sir. But it seems that our other manager has seen a ghost!" Andre chuckled at his joke as if written by a jester. Christine offered him no humor and he let out a huff, mumbling something under his breath.

"Well, Maestro? I presume you have something to say." Christine continued to stare at Firmin, her eyes never leaving the pale face.

"Forgive my curiosity, but what is exactly wrong with the monsieur?" Christine found herself asking. She's never been one to ignore the questions spinning in her head.

Andre shrugged as he poured himself a glass of wine. "I could not even humor you, Maestro.

"I had wondered if I could speak to the opera house composer? We seemed to have found ourselves in a disagreement."

Andre suddenly tensed, the wine spilling slightly from the jerk. The man appeared to be suddenly apprehensive, glancing around the office quickly. His eyes ricocheting in their sockets as he seemed to go into a trance. His body lurched forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. Christine's eyes widened in shock at the man's insanity. What kind of place did she agree to work at?

"Don't speak of him!" His words were harsh against Christine's face and the foul stench of barely brushed teeth greeted her senses. Her stomach flipped in revulsion as she ripped the hands away from her.

"What kind of treatment is this? I come to your office with a simple inquiry and you handle me like some dog starved! I will not be treated so poorly in my own workspace, Andre. I will not have it." Her lips curled back in a snarl as she crossed an arm in front of her in case he tried to touch her again. Firmin seemed to have sobered at this point, hopping from his chair to defuse the situation.

"Please, forgive my friend, Maestro. It has been a trying day." He offered a meek smile and she returned it with glare. His shoulders slugged forward as he let out a breath of air. Andre was sitting now, seeming to have taken the place of Firmin.

"Please explain to me why I cannot speak of the composer?" Christine cursed her curiosity, hoping not to send the men into a frenzy once more. Thankfully, Firmin only shuddered and leaned back against the desk. Picking up the wine his friend had just poured, and indulged himself in the maroon liquid. His hand swirled the contents thoughtfully before taking another swig and glancing at her over the rim.

"The composer is a frightful man." The words appeared to take a large toll of him, for his body sagged with the effort to get the words away from his lips. Christine was left confused, more so than she had been momentarily. Forgetting her manners, she grasped the wine from Firmin's hand and placed it back on the desk. She wanted his full attention, not some slobbering boy.

"I'm afraid I do not understand." Her eyes locked with his, demanding and relentless. Firmin gulped and tugged at his ascot.

"I'm sorry, Maestro. But just heed my words when I say not to mingle with the man. He is brutal, violent and will not stand for things that do not run in his favor." Firmin wiped a hand down his face, exhausted with the topic.

"And what has warranted such severe words?" Christine pressed on, intrigued with the man known as the composer.

Firmin narrowed his eyes, ready to shun the girl and her inquiries. Christine quickly handed him back the glass of wine, hoping to loosen his tongue.

"Oh, Maestro, if I had known you were such an inquisitive young girl I would have never welcomed you in this office." He sighed and took a large gulp of wine.

"I supposed he hasn't really shown much violence. But his temper is fierce and I would not ignore his capability to injure someone…" his voice suddenly lowered, glancing back at the door behind her, "He wears a mask, mademoiselle. Ghastly thing over half of his face."

He let out a loud laugh of insanity, "Perhaps he's a ghost!" Firmin began mumbling incoherently to himself before taking a seat next to his friend. They both sat frozen, suddenly unresponsive to touch or sound. Christine groaned. Such dramatic men. So what if the man wore a mask? He obviously must have a reason, or perhaps he enjoyed a good theatrical element every now and again. Her eyes trailed back to the odd managers. It was strange how they focused on the photo hanging from the wall. She moved towards it till her nose practically aligned with the angel staring back at her. Under close inspection, she could see the paint strokes and small chips of edging all throughout the painting.

Laughing at her own foolishness, she made to leave when she noticed a small dent to her right. The angel's mouth appeared to be slightly sunken in, as is a hole had been patched not long ago. Was the painting under repair? She scrutinized the artwork once more and ejected that possibility. Unable to convince herself otherwise, she timidly touched the lips of the angel in front of her. The painting gave a lurch and the panel holding the angel's lips gave way to a black hole. Giddy with the revelation of a booby trap, she pressed her hands against the painting and peered into the hole with her right eye. She couldn't quite make out anything other brick and mortar. It looked to be a hallway of some sort, she faintly saw the edge of a stair peeking out at her.

"Maestro!" Startled, she whipped herself around, making sure to hide her new discovery behind her head.

Andre and Firmin were standing once more, their eyes furious. "What are you still doing here?" Firmin exclaimed.

"And near the composer's painting nonetheless!" His eyes went frantic again as he searched her face for any sign of injury. Satisfied with his finding, he quickly ushered her aside and out their office door.

Christine was greeted with the door slamming in her face. It didn't bother her much, she was to glad that she had bumped her head back against the painting to hide her new discovery. The composer obviously loved the theatrics very much if he had even the managers fooled with fear. However, the painting had been interesting, did he own it? Her mind filled with endless questions, suddenly engrossed with the lack of story about the masked composer.

Racing to her car, eager to begin her research on the man, she drove home narrowly missing cars until she arrived in the driveway. She threw open the door and placed her things on the kitchen counter. Pulling out her laptop, she began searching the last few operas and the playbills. Every composer had their name listed, it was a religious aspect of the arts. Clicking on a downloadable file, she printed out the playbill. Her fingers moved frantically shuffling through the ads and pages before landing on the credit section. Skimming the names on the page, she finally found her answer.

 **Composer: E.**

Christine gritted her teeth and let out a screech. Throwing the papers away from her and grabbed her computer again.

* * *

The man simply did not exist. She lied on her back with her computer perched on her stomach and papers strewn all over her living room. The curly mop had revealed itself a while ago when she had pulled at her bun in frustration, letting the unruly locks breathe. She had searched all over the internet, looked at every playbill from almost ten years ago and found absolutely nothing.

E.

Who in their right mind would give up the opportunity for recognition? If he wanted to hide himself so badly, why did he pick one of the most fame-seeking arts out there? She berated herself quickly, wondering why she was obsessing over this so much. He obviously wasn't completely invisible, the managers had to know who he was. The man must have friends around somewhere! Even the opera house couldn't keep every secret hidden for very long.

Her mind replayed the events of today. Repeating every word her managers had spoken to her. They knew that the composer owned the painting, knew him well enough to even pass judgement on his character. It couldn't be impossible to speak with the man. She would just have to begin from scratch and talk to people at the opera house.

With new resolve, she vowed to meet this infamous composer.

 **XXX**

 **Well, this is kind of a test run to see how well this story will be received. I'm not sure if this concept has already been used but I'm hoping to put a new spin on it.**

 **In other words, if you enjoyed the first chapter, please let me know by leaving a comment/view/favorite/follow. If I get enough traffic, I'll invest in a beta and upload the next chapter. I already have the first 43 pages written so hopefully you all enjoyed it.**

 **Also, if there is any confusion about the time period, I don't have one. I want a bit of a modern twist in it but still element of the romanticism of the time period the actually book takes place in. This also takes some elements from all three version of the phantom of the opera including Gaston's version, ALW and of course Joel's version in the 2004 movie. If you have any further questions and don't want to leave a review, feel free to PM me.**

 **Your's Truly,**

 **Phantome**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Probably a few grammatical errors. Point them out if you please:)**

 _A maestro with too much curiosity and a composer with too much hatred. It was a recipe for disaster…no one would have ever thought something extraordinary would become of it._

 _Maestro_

 _A Phantom of the Opera fictional story_

 _All rights belong to those who own the phantom along with hints of ALW._

 _Enjoy._

 _ **CHAPTER 2**_

"Monsieur, I'm not very fond of humor, especially in the workplace. Are you trying to make me laugh with such horrendous playing?" Christine was beyond frustrated. Her bun and pencil skirt abandoned for jeans and her hair wildly strewn about. The boy had called her an hour ago demanding her help with the new piece they were working on. They had a show in three days and she knew that they were far from prepared. The wind section still needed to work on their timing and the entire orchestra needing to practice unity. But by god, this boy would be the death of her. His clarinet has not ceased its croaking abilities and if she had to him go over the bridge one more time with his clarinet out of tune-

"My condolences, Maestro. I'm not this terrible. It's just nerves-" Christine hopped to her feet and Raoul sputtered in his seat. Her mind reeling with all the excuses he had managed to conjure up within the last hour. Did it ever end?

"Monsieur, may it be that you refrain from excuses for the time being? I feel myself dazed with them." Her tone came out more clipped than she had wanted but saw the boy bristle in his seat. Maybe now we can get some fire going with this boy. His passion may be present, but his skill was lost in the recesses of his imagination. Christine failed to perceive how he had earned a place from the start. He had no unique style nor did he even demonstrate a simple melody. All he could play were sound effects. She tilted her head, the boy could possibly earn a career in a sound studio. If all else failed, she would see to him looking for work there.

"Mademoiselle-"

"Maestro." She corrected with a nod.

He bounced his head with vigor, "Ah, forgive me, Maestro. But, I must have some skill, correct? I mean he would not have recommended me for this position, right?" He looked at her for reassurance, suddenly doubting his abilities even further. Her mouth opened and closed but no sounds made their way out. For once, she was stunned into silence. Christine's face froze with shock at the question. She honestly had no clue as to how the boy landed a position in the orchestra. The managers had alerted her to the lack of musicians in the vicinity willing to work, many wanting to venture towards America.

"I'm afraid I cannot supply an answer. I cannot claim you have skill because I have yet to see it. Do you play alone often?" The boy shook his head. "Well, shall we start there? Make it a point to practice at least two hours a day this week. We will increase this as the times go on. For now, I want you to continuing practicing this piece for the next twenty minutes. Do not stop unless absolutely necessary. Every time you end roll right back into the beginning."

Raoul nodded his head and lifted the clarinet back to his lips before blowing into it like a baboon.

"No!" She quickly pulled the clarinet away from his mouth. "Breathe from here." She patted her ribs and expanded them outward to show the proper technique. He mimicked the action and began to play, the first note coming out slow, gentle, and surprisingly, on key. Raoul looked up at her with wide eyes as he began to play. She offered him a smile of encouragement and gestured as her chest to remind him to breathe. He still squeaked at certain parts, but it was some improvement. Maybe the kid had potential after all.

After two hours of practice with Raoul, Christine finally dragged herself to the backstage area to visit the managers' office once more. She had a few questions about set up and arrival times for the orchestra. Perhaps they would need some assistance elsewhere as well. Of course, she couldn't deny the curious thoughts plaguing her about the painting of an angel hanging on their wall. They had reacted so severely to her inquires about the composer and their violence towards the painting was utmost peculiar. She really wanted to inspect it some more without the hindrance of their presence. Firstly, Christine needed to figure out a way to rid them of their office for only a few moments. She had reveled over this all throughout the day and came to the conclusion that she would undoubtedly need assistance. The opera house's employees were not the kindest, and she was a bit nervous to approach any of them, let alone ask them to aid her in finding the composer which they all seemed to fear.

Which left her standing outside their office once more. She lifted her hand to knock, hoping they would be gone so she could investigate herself, but she heard voices arguing lightly back and forth. Christine pushed her ear up against the door and realized the third voice belonged to a female. Her voice sounded foreign, perhaps Italian?

"…the Prima Donna and I expect you to take care of this at once!"

"…understand your situation. But we cannot help you."

A screech sounded from the office and Christine had to pull away to shake her head from its power. The door suddenly flung open almost hitting Christine square in the face. A woman dressed in a long fitted dress decorated in beautiful golds and shimmering reds. It seemed to be almost of Asian qualities, the silk appearing like water under the stage lights. Christine then took notice of the redden face of the woman, her jaw strong and taut which gave her the appearance of a saucy personality. Her eyes were slanted towards her nose as it flared in anger.

"And who are you?" The woman's heavy accent had Christine stressing her ear to understand her.

"Christine D'aae. The new Maestro." Christine held out a formal hand and watched as the woman sneered in disgust.

"I won't touch that. Go ahead into the managers, they obviously don't care about their Prima Donna!" She screeched the last word into their office and shoved Christine aside in her haste. Christine stared after the woman, completely appalled by her behavior.

"Ah, do excuse her Maestro. She's quite temperamental with things. Do come in." Andre appeared in the doorway to usher the stunned woman in. Christine allowed herself to be tugged into the room. She wanted to be certain that she had enough time to thoroughly investigate the room. Taking a chair situated before their desk, she crossed her legs and folded her hands neatly into her lap. Firmin offered her a glass of wine which she politely declined.

"Well, Maestro, to what do we owe this pleasure?" Andre took a seat in the swivel chair behind the desk while Firmin took his place on the couch.

"The opera, Monsieur. Since this will be my first at this house, I was wondering about the typical protocols to be followed." Christine kept her eyes focused around the room, never quite meeting their eyes. The painting stood out like a sore thumb in their rather darkly decorated office. Most of the light was fixed through a few candles sitting on their desk. Burgundy curtains hung over most of the windows keeping out most of the morning light.

"Ah! Very well, we must have forgotten to supply you with that information. Do forgive us. Andre? It should be located in the drawer to your right."

"The lower or upper?"

"Lower." Firmin placed his arm over the back of the couch and stirred his cup thoughtfully. Christine noted how much the man had aged since she first saw him. Firmin's hair took on an ugly shade of grey while his neck appeared to sag like an accordion. His fingers appeared to be short and stout, showing the strong grasp he probably had in the scrap metal business.

"Here it is, Miss Daae." Andre handed her the envelope containing procedures and blueprints of where she was to place equipment the night before.

"Is this the entire opera house?" Christine ran her fingers over the many hallways and corridors lying beneath the main floor. It appear to have almost five floors and a lower basement. An old chapel sat situated in the 4th floor where another hallway ran from what appeared to be a window. Stairs of many shapes appeared sprinkled through the plans, some spiraling down to the first floor where others only moved between the fifth and fourth.

"I had no idea the opera house was so grand. We have five floors?"

The managers both gave a nod, "Yes, and a basement. In fact, rumors have spread that we have a lake in the basement. Ha! Interested in a swim, Miss Daae?" The men laughed at their jokes but Christine found herself far from amused. These plans might be her very ticket to finding out where the photo in the office led.

The managers continued to be completely enamored with themselves and Christine rolled her eyes at the notion. These men were supposed to be leading an entire opera house?

"Do forgive me gentlemen, but how exactly did you come to be involved in the arts?" Christine gave them an innocent smile and the men paused their foolishness to ponder her question.

"I suppose it was just a rather smart investment at the time. Honestly, we haven't a clue about the arts, let alone opera. Why I can't tell the difference between a masterpiece and a spot on the page!" Andre bellowed out, his belly shaking with laughter. Firmin joined him in their frollicks and Christine gritted her teeth.

"You mean to tell me that you both have no experience in the arts? Not even as a hobby?"

The men exchanged a look, "Well of course not, Maestro. Do we look like artists?" Firmin moved his arm to brush his imaginary paintbrush across the air. Andre soon buckled out in laughter at the gesture, his cheeks becoming tinted with the wine.

"I must say, gentlemen, that I am indeed shocked." Christine pulled her purse into her lap and tucked the folder inside. "I do not see how I can value your opinions any longer."

Andre bristled at this, "Maestro, we are still your advisors, and it remains to be our business. Until that right is taken away, you will carry out any action that we deem fit."

Christine scoffed, "I will not allow incorrigible managers haggle my artistic domain. I will respect your wishes, but whether I follow them is a different matter entirely."

"Your job will be the deciding factor then, Maestro." Firmin reminded. Christine nodded her head and glanced at the painting once more. She stood from her chair and gathered her belongings.

"Gentlemen." She tipped her head in departure and left the office without waiting for a response.

Christine moved towards the fourth floor of the opera house where her office was located. The key tended to stick in the lock often and she had to force the door open. She had called for maintenance the first day but they've yet to address the issue. Pushing the door open with her hip, she carried her purse and composition notes to her desk before letting them drop. Her chair was rusted, but deemed feasible. She relaxed herself into the cushions and placed her feet upon the desk. A bottle of wine sat on the corner and she poured herself a glass. Christine watched as the liquid swirled around the rim.

She had forgotten to ask about the composer. Although, it probably would have warranted the same reaction. The blueprints peeking out of her purse called her attention. She quickly lowered the wine and spread the blueprints out over her desk. The manager's office was on the first sheet in the far back right corner. The prints showed no access to any hallways except through the main door. Not even an enclave or alcove within a few feet of it. She let out a huff of air in disbelief. Was she simply imagining what she saw? No, there was definitely something behind that painting and with managers fear of it…she had no doubt something dwelled behind it.

Bringing the rim to her lips for another indulgence, a small knick in the wall made itself apparent. Quickly placing her glass on the desk, she pushed out of her chair and narrowed in on the small discrepancy. It appeared to be no larger than an two inches but almost appeared to be a latch of some sort. Her finger picked at the wall for a moment before pressed the piece up slightly. A click sounded and for a moment nothing happened, then the wall began to shudder as it collapsed upon itself allowing entrance into a dark hallway.

Electrified by her new discovery, Christine quickly gathered a flashlight out of her purse and the blue prints the managers had given her. The end of the flashlight was clenched between her teeth as she spread out the outlines in her hands. Stepping into the hallway, her eyes traced the prints and found that she was nowhere. The prints were clear that the wall should have ended here and the outside world should have been seen. Yet here she stood with a hallway leading into complete darkness. Suppressing a shiver, she threw the blueprints back into her office and held the flashlight towards the end of the corridor. Movement caught her eye as a small rodent crossed over the stone floors.

Christine could feel the warning bells going off in her mind. The idea of venturing down this dark road sounded absurd even to her curious mind, but she couldn't fight her feet as they continued their adventure. She had no idea what could possibly be at the end of this hallway, nor where she was exactly. It made sense that the hallway encircled the entire building, appearing to follow the general shape of the Opera Populaire. The walls were wet and it smelled musty. Her nose wrinkled at the odd sense but it wasn't completely off-putting. Similar to an older dungeon almost in its appearance and smell. She remembered visiting one from the French Revolution when she was in high school.

A large splash called her feet to a halt as she extended her arm forward to shine more light. It appeared to be futile as it only gave way to more darkness. Another disturbance caught her attention and the hairs of her arm stood. This had been a bad idea. Who knew what kind of person lived down here! She was well versed in the horror stories of the male population lurking through the alleyways. And here she was willingly following one to her death. Finding her courage suddenly lacking, she turned to make a run for it.

The flashlight fell out of her hand at some point and she had no problem leaving it to push her arms to the rhythm of her legs. A light coming from her office allowed her to smile in disbelief. The door had remained open, in fact, she hadn't even considered the possibility that it could have closed in her departure. Silently thanking God for this information, she hopped into her office and quickly pulled the latch on the door closed. It rumbled in protest but eventually closed leaving no seams to guarantee it had even been there to begin with.

Her anxiety of the situation finally caught up with her as she collapsed against the desk. Knocking her wine off of its perch, she let a sigh and reached the grasp the goblet. The floor would need to be cleaned before it stained. Placing the goblet back on her desk, she turned to reach forward and grab a few tissues from her purse. Getting on her hands and knees, she began to soak up her foolishness. Once she deemed the mess clean, she sat back on her knees and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Glancing back over at the blueprints scattered on the floor, it was then she noticed something out of place.

A small envelope sat eloquently upon the pile. With shaky fingers, she picked it up and noticed the wax seal on the back. Finding some humor in the fact that someone still used such method to seal an envelope, she peeled it open and pulled out its contents.

 _Maestro,_

 _It comes to my attention that you seek answers that are not available to you. If you must be curious, do use some finesse instead of parading around stifling the managers. I've been very patient with their new roles and it does me no good to find them fearing for your curiosity._

 _However, I couldn't help but overhear your blunt response to their experience in the arts and I find myself allotting some respect for you. It may be possible for us to work together, since those incompetent fools continue their insolence. If you are interested in working with me, please place a note in box five and I will be sure to contact you._

 _I also find it humorous that you find my methods of sealing letters outdated. Even in this era, many appreciate a classic touch every now and again._

Christine watched in awe as the words appeared to be written out of thin air. She turned the letter over to see if it were simply a trick of light, but her eyes followed each curl of words as they came into existence.

 _Yes, you are indeed seeing correctly. I am currently writing this letter as you read it. You may allow yourself to believe this is magic, but I can assure you it is no more than a trick of the mind. I find myself indulging in many different hobbies._

 _Continuing what I was saying before, I would prefer if you keep this between the two of us. I do not need any wandering faces appearing in places where they shouldn't be…_

 _In fact, please keep this in mind for yourself. I am a man of solitude and would like it to remain that way. And if you shall dare to enter my realm once more, please be courteous to those in slumber. For it is rather late in the evening and some us prefer to sleep._

 _In other words, keep your heavy feet from making so much noise walking through the hallways of the opera house. Things do echo, Maestro, and I am not fond of intruders._

 _I find myself for lack of better words, allow me to wish you a good evening._

 _Till we speak again,_

 _E._

The letter became her sole purpose as she continued to stare at it open the floor. She almost let it drop to the floor when she noticed the man knew exactly what she was thinking and even acting. Her eyes glanced around the room warily. Could he see her now? And what did he mean by a trick of the mind? The room spun around her and she clutched her head in agony in order to still her raging mind. She had not expect something like this to happen. It was only a job and she didn't quite want to explore new avenues with a composer who enjoyed playing ghost.

"Maestro?"

Christine jumped at her name and quickly gathered her blueprints from the floor and placed them back into her purse along with the letter.

"Just one moment." Christine called out as she brushed down her shirt and opened the door to greet the visitor. She almost let out a gasp but quickly choked it down and offered a smile. The man appearing before her was absolutely repulsing. His clothes barely fit his frame and his stomach peeked out at her from the shirt he was wearing. The hair upon his head sat in an unruly manner and appeared to not have been washed for weeks. A poignant odor emitted from him and she discreetly scratched her nose to hide it from his smell.

"My name is Joseph Buquet, Maestro." He gave a little bow and flashed her a smile. Another shiver of disgust rolled up her spine as his yellowed teeth revealed themselves.

Clearing her throat, she moved to the side to allow him entrance into her office. He gave a nod of thanks while moving into the room and she found the odor following his every step. Christine made a mental note to purchase some candles upon her next journey to the market.

"You may call me Maestro. Is there something I can do for you?" He gave a chuckle at her clipped response and she narrowed her eyes. The way his eyes roamed over her frame didn't ease the queasiness of her stomach. Feeling slightly exposed, she crossed her arms over her chest and coughed for his attention.

"Why yes, I was told to address your door handle. I am one of the stage hands." His voice was gruff and laced with mucus. This was the man they sent to fix her door?

"They do not have a maintenance department?" Christine was not in favor of having to entertain her guest much longer, let alone allow him to fix her door.

"Yes, but he is out of town at the moment and I figured I would come and take a look at it." He offered her a sleazy smile and she grimaced.

"I'll wait for him, thank you for your concern." Her eyes pleaded for him to leave but he seemed content to stand and survey the room. "If you do not mind, Monsieur, I do need to leave. So if you would be so kind to visit another time?"

His eyes ran over her frame once more and laughed. "Why Maestro, I would gladly visit another time. Just give me a shout and I will give you a run for your money."

Anger flashing through her veins, she slammed her door open and gestured for him to leave. "I promise you, sir. I will not humor you with my presence today, or any day in the future. Good day and do not return."

Joseph tossed his hands up in surrender with a laugh. "You won't be saying that for much longer, Christine." He left the office but Christine made sure to smack his back with the door on the way out.

"The nerve of that man!" She screeched sending her belongings off the desk once more. Not one item in her office found refuge as they were flung towards every wall and corner until she could feel her muscles ache from the exertion. Gasping for air, she grabbed the bottle of wine and threw some back. She considered reporting him to the managers but knew they would be of no help, especially after her parting words earlier.

Shoving everything into her purse, she left cleaning her office to another day. The night had arrived hours ago and her watch told her it was nearing three in the morning. Her exhaustion became apparent to her and she found herself falling asleep at the wheel. Quickly slapping her cheeks a few times, she steered herself into her driveway. Juggling her purse and composition folder in one hand, she pushed her key into the lock and pushed open the door. A crunch sounded under her feet and she glanced down to find a red rose crushed beneath her shoe.

Placing her things onto the kitchen counter, she returned for the rose and locked the door. Her fingers caressed the petals reveling in their smoothness. A black ribbon was neatly tied at the stem and she smiled at the gesture. Whoever left this at her door had a knack for perfection. Even the petals were perfectly shaped around the bud and the color was bright. It was the ideal rose that everyone associated the flower with. She brought the rose to her nose and inhaled its fragrance. The smell of roses always had a place in her heart. Her father often brought them home after a long trip.

A vase her father had once given her would be the perfect addition the plant. Filling the piece with water, she styled the rose to sit at an angle and appear towards her should she be sitting in the living room. A bright smile filled her face as she sopped up the splashed water on the counter. She moved to her purse and began to put away its contents.

Her fingers clasped around parchment and forgetting what it was for a moment, pulled it out to peer in question. It almost burned her fingers from shock as more words began to appear on the page.

 _There are many things you are unaware of, Maestro. I advise you to be weary of who you befriend, let alone allow entrance into your office without another present. Must I chastise you for your folly? I cannot allow a possible business partner to endanger herself out of sheer propriety! Are you daft?_

 _I beg of you, Maestro. Please exercise immense caution when interacting with the opera house's staff. Many of them have nothing to live for and will lead you to the same conclusion. Especially a man like Joseph Buquet. I have been trying to rid him for many years now but he remains to be a thorn in my side._

 _Alas! I almost forgot to mention one crucial thing, how foolish of me._

 _This opera house is beyond your imagination and many secrets lie within it. Best you keep your nose where it belongs and hold your tongue when situation calls for it. Lashing out at a man who reeks of disgust is not wise, especially a woman of your stature._

 _Please, do not consider my words with a feminist mind. I am simply stating the man is sleazy and I fear for any contractor of this opera house. I am aware no one has properly alerted you to how things are run. If you have any questions I advise you speak with Madame Giry. She will be of help and can be trusted more than anyone else here._

 _And yes, the rose is quite beautiful, isn't it?_

 _E._

The letter dropped from her fingers. Her hand lifting to her mouth, horrified by the notion that he could see her at this very moment. Moving quickly throughout her home, she began shutting doors, and closing curtains until no moonlight penetrated her home. Securely her door once more, she moved backwards into her kitchen before she allowed her shoulders to relax. This man was beyond her. Christine wasn't sure if she felt safe, or amazed but the magic the man has exhibited. It reminded her of childhood and the magicians she would see in the traveling fairs when her father played at the festivals. She always enjoyed touring with him to different cities and engaging with many different types of people. In fact, her love for music came from these very moments in her life. A kind woman had explained to her how to sing when she saw her performing an aria from Faust. Ever since then, Christine dreamed of being an opera singer. Her father encouraged her passion by taking her to performances whenever he had the opportunity.

But when her father left her life completely, her voice ceased to work. The doctors claimed she had wailed so much she had damaged her vocal cords. Whenever she would move into her soprano range, she practically growled out the note. The pain was even worse than the noise her throat made. It was as if she hadn't drank in months and her throat burned from being parched. Unable to completely forgo music, she pursued conducting, satisfied that she could still create beautiful music, even if it wasn't with her own instrument.

She suddenly felt frazzled, her hand constantly roamed her hair as she felt the watchful eyes of the composer. The note lying on the ground was just so curious in itself, she wanted to pick it up again but god, she was so frightened. Leaving the note on the ground, she moved into her bedroom and decided that a good night's rest would be her best remedy.

Christine pulled at her eyebrow as she plucked another unwanted hair from the arch. She smoothed a finger over the finished product before placing down her tweezers and moving to pick up a brush to wipe some blush onto the apples of her cheeks. She didn't want to put on too much, since this night was more about the actors than herself. In fact, the audience would really only see her back and she didn't deem it important to load up with the foundation. Her eyes had a soft browns brushed onto their lids with a gold lining to highlight her blue irises. She pulled a bit of a lighter shade of brown into the arch of her eyebrow while brushing a bit of a darker shade into the hollows of her eyes. Deeming her appearance to be acceptable, she placed a bit of gloss on her lips and began gathering her papers into her composition folder.

The clocked reminded her that she needed to leave within the next few minutes. She grabbed a pair of heels out of the closet and hung them on a finger as she moved to exit her home. Christine tugged on the door handle to ensure it was locked and found her feet making contact with a rose crushed beneath. Her eyes widened as she bent down to pick up the red rose, the familiar black ribbon tied around its stem secured a small flap of parchment.

 _Remember my offer, Maestro._

 _Good luck tonight, I will be watching to see how you've tarnished my orchestra._

 _E._

This letter was a bit more reassuring, and from the dried ink, it had been left here a while ago. It was still a bit frightening that the man knew her address, but with his presence in the opera house frightening most of its employees, it probably wasn't difficult.

Placing her shoes on the passenger seat, she began to pull out of her driveway. The rose sitting precariously on her dash as she glanced at it between seconds. Traffic wasn't too heavy, since she still had a few hours before the show began. The protocols she was to follow as Maestro appeared to take a large amount of time and she didn't want to show insolence during her first performance.

Looking at the rose once more, she wondered where the composer would be watching from.

Christine stood before her orchestra as the company began the first scene of Faust. Her arms fluttered around her as she jutted her chin towards the winds. Silently praying that they would be attentive this evening, she heard a small squeak of a clarinet but thankfully the audience didn't seem to mind. Her eyes narrowed in on the De'Chagny boy seated towards the end. His eyes were closed and his entire face was focused in concentration. Her features softened a bit as she finally took notice of the boy's appearance. He had his hair slicked back behind his ears and she realized that he had bright blue eyes. His cheekbones were not very prominent yet, considering how young he was, but indeed, a good looking man.

The performance was going rather smoothly, the orchestra hit a few bumps but nothing an untrained ear would notice. Her eyes crinkled in happiness as they closed out the first act, resorting to an intermission. The lash flick of her wrist ceased the ending note, and the orchestra was out of their seats before the curtain even closed. She let out a laugh as Raoul practically tripped over his feet in his haste to reach her.

"Why hello, Monsieur." She spoke with a smile and gestured for him to stand before her. A grin broke out on Raoul's face and he moved to his indicated place.

"Good evening, Maestro. How did you find my performance?" His eyes twinkled with excitement, remind her of a young child awaiting recognition for their latest drawing.

"It was well, Raoul. You have earned a place in this orchestra. Remember, you still have much practicing ahead of you. I heard a slip in the first act." Christine watched with amusement as a red hue flooded his face. He nervously tugged at his collar and stuttered incoherently.

"Oh, be calm, Raoul. You're doing fine, return to your seat or find yourself a drink. I believe we only have mere minutes before we must return." Christine placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder and watched as his lips pulled into a timid smile. He nodded his thanks and moved out of the pit.

Only five more minutes before they were required to tune once more and begin the second act. She bent over to adjust her heels and found the hairs on her neck attracting towards a pair of eyes. She quickly spun around and found herself staring at box five. It was as dark as the night, but she could faintly make out a lighter silhouette seated in a chair. She stretched her eyes in order to make out any human qualities, and found two bright eyes shining in her direction. She dropped her baton and gasped at the sight. It was almost ghoulish, the way they shimmered like an animal. The most frightening aspect was the contact they were making at her own. They squinted in almost a wry smile, and even nodded slightly in her direction.

It didn't occur to her until later that evening that those haunting eyes belonged to the opera house's very own composer.


	3. Chapter 3

**So...college happened. It's sophomore year and I've got an internship and decided to adopt a dog. She's a blessing, but definitely a lot of work. This chapter has been written, but not edited and I did want to add more...but I figured I'll just end it there so the next chapter can have some E/C interaction.**

 **Yes, ladies and gents, Erik and Christine will be meeting in the next chapter.**

 **On a side note, I'm going to see Phantom of the Opera on broadway for the very first time this weekend and I am practically shaking with excitement! I'll let you all know how it is with the next update!**

 _Maestro_

CHAPTER 3

Christine was finding herself more exhausted than usual. Those glowing eyes she had saw the other night continued to haunt her in her dreams. Every now and then she found herself peering out her windows when she could have sworn those eyes had been staring at her in the reflection. It felt like they were everywhere, in the mirror, outside, and she always had that prickling sensation at the back of her neck whenever she was alone in her office.

A pen stayed clenched in her hand as she stared down at the blank parchment. Christine was tired of imaging those eyes, and deemed it necessary to see them once more, to reassure herself that it was no trick of her mind. That those glowing eyes had been in box five and she did see the composer. It plagued her thoughts every moment of the day, almost ushering her to mention it to at least someone in hopes that she wasn't the only one who saw them. Yet, her lips were frozen in silence, something compelling her to not include anyone else in her scavenger hunt.

She glanced at the notch in her wall, wondering if she should go down the hallway once more. Christine was positive that the composer resided within the walls of the opera. The important matter at hand, however, was whether or not she continued contact with him. She had not replied to his proposition, nor has he tried to contact her through his magical parchment again. Her days had gotten a bit bland, considering the opera house had been under some repairs from a prior performance. A piece of the set had fallen on the lead soprano during the closing show. She appeared to be well, but rather shaken up by the ordeal, claiming there was a ghost in the landings above.

Of course, everyone thought her mad, but Christine wondered if their "ghost" had been the composer himself. But those eyes had never left box five, appearing every night in the same place. She would need to inspect the box herself, maybe there was a picture like the one in the manager's office as well. Her pen connected with the parchment and she began to write.

 _E,_

 _Forgive me for my curt introduction, but since I have no title for you, I will simply continue with the nickname you have given yourself. Perhaps I may even guess it one day._

 _I have given much consideration to your proposal…_

After rehearsals for the new opera, Christine made her way to box five. The letter she had written earlier was grasped in her hand and she checked behind her to ensure her solitude. The opera house had a habit of making everything their business and Christine abhorred the idea of anyone intruding on her secret. With the way many of them acted, she feared they would dispose of her on the spot when they discovered her communication with the elusive composer.

The box came into view and she found herself hovering at the curtain. Her limbs felt heavy with fear and uncertainty, who knew what kind of man she was about to make a deal with. By god, what if he was in there right now, waiting to strike her? Her eyes began to burn with water as she took a hesitant step back. No, she would do this. Pushing the curtain open to step inside, she was greeted with darkness, the lights in the auditorium had been vanquished an hour ago. She instantly regretted forgoing a flashlight that evening, her fear of the darkness becoming apparent to the goosebumps raising on her arms.

She took a few steps forward and bumped into a chair. Gasping in pain, she dropped the letter and clutched her knee. Her mouth filling with curses, she moved to the ground and began to feel for her letter. Her fingers connected with paper and she let out a sigh in relief. The idea of remaining in this box made her throat contract. Christine moved to stand up and instantly bumped her head on a table, a few contents fell to the floor in her folly and she mumbled more curses. This box seemed to shrink in size within only a few moments. Annoyed and beyond caring, she through the envelope on the ground and left the box.

Christine made it a point to bring a flashlight up later and place it within the folds of the curtain.

Rehearsals were going rather splendid today. Raoul was doing quite well with the current number they were working on. Today, the orchestra would be performing with the cast for the upcoming performance of Il Muto. Christine was rather excited for the next opera, this one being a particular favorite of hers. Her arms move with fluid motions as she executed subliminal cues to the wind section. She couldn't help but sing along to the opening number, this one reminding her particularly of her father and her childhood. Her voice came out rather shrill in her quiet tone- it being a struggle to sing so quietly to an opera.

Her eyes lit up with amusement as three bystanders came out in their power white wigs and painted skin. Their costumes were loud with color as they lined up on stage right and began to first aria. Christine twiddled her head to the music and Raoul let out a loud laugh. Her eyes instantly flickered to his and he turned red with shame and began his cue to play.

A curtain pulled back to show La Carlotta dressed in all her glory with a frilly countess costume on a wig that appeared to touch the ceiling. The pageboy ran his hands precariously up her waist as she snapped her fan shut and gasped in shock. Christine found herself smiling in delight as the husband entered the room and one of the maids flitted around the stage humoring the visitors in the room.

La Carlotta stood up and began to belt out her lines. Christine felt herself flinch at her harsh tones and wish the woman would soften up her vowels every now and then. Carlotta was indeed a good opera singer, but there wasn't anything very special about her voice and her vibrato was exhausting. Christine wondered why the managers never picked a new lead for their performances. Most opera houses held auditions for every show, in case a hidden talent lurked within the street of Paris. Were the manager's frightened of a new prima donna?

Her mind found itself in a void until a shrill scream pierced over the sounds of the orchestra. She cut their music and looked up towards the stage to see what caused the sudden commotion. Another stage piece had fallen on Carlotta and she lied face down into the floor, her limbs flailing as she panicked under its weight. Christine let out a small laugh at the sight. The set piece didn't appear to be heavy and most of it rested on the petticoat of her dress. She would be just fine.

"You all are a bunch of idiots!" Her accent was still corrupting most of her words and Christine tilted her head misunderstanding.

"Alyssa! Please, these things do happen!" The managers pleaded with the prima donna. The woman would not have it. Her voice ringing through the rafters in exasperation.

"These things do happen? Well until you stop these things from happening, this thing does not happen." Her arms were thrown into the air as she hustled her entourage together and quickly vacated the premises. Christine inwardly rejoiced, hoping rehearsals would go much smoother from now on with the spoiled wench gone.

The managers began to yell at each other grabbing things and ripping them apart.

"We have no understudy! We shall have to refund a full house!"

"Perhaps we can have one of the chorus girls sing?" A woman dressed in black came out from the curtains and approached the growing commotion.

"Ah, Madame Giry. I don't believe we have any sopranos in our chorus." Andre explained, gesturing to the company before him. The man's cheeks pinched in disappointment, his hands irately pulling at his bowtie. "Oh, for heaven's sake. What are we do to? Damn that prima donna of your's!"

"Mousier, if you please." Madam Giry gestured for him to step aside before swiftly moving towards center stage to address the company. She straightened her stance, her feet comfortably falling into first position. "Attention, attention. If you wish to have a chance at being the star of this show, I suggest you step forward so the manager's and the maestro can select one of you."

"No ballerina's are to audition!" Her voice rang out, cutting the few girls who went to step forward. "You all come with me, we must practice!" Her staff finalized her command and the ballet rats immediately fell into place behind her.

Andre turned towards Christine, wiping at the sweat collecting at his forehead. "Maestro, if you do not mind, I think I will retire for my office for a much needed drink. I'll leave you to decide the fate of this opera." Christine nodded absentmindedly, her eyes staring ahead, lost in thought.

Silence curtained around the company members, waiting anxiously for Christine's cue. But frankly, she wasn't exactly sure of what to do. Grant it she has experience with vocal training, but to put a chorus girl as the lead with less than 48-hours to go? It was positively mad.

Christine's lips slowly pulled into a smirk, her arms coming to cross over her chest. She did love challenges an awful lot, and who was she to deny her manager's wishes?

"Those of you who would like to sing for me, step forward."

XXX

Later that evening, Christine sat on her couch with a salad in her hands as her eyes watched the television screen. Her mouth chewed the lettuce thoughtfully as she searched around for the remote, uninterested in the current channel. Her fingers made contact with a piece of parchment and she tugged at it from between the cushions. A crumpled up letter sat in her palm, and she began to unfold it.

 _You have been holding out on this opera house, haven't you, Christine?_

 _I must say how pleased I am with your current standings in our deal and I will happily oblige with the commands you have made. However, I would like to add one more to my side of the deal._

 _Earlier this evening, I was walking through the cellars when I heard to most intriguing voice. Yes, an orchestra drowned it out quite well, but my ears do not deceive me for I had heard an angel._ _And believe me when I say that to my surprise, it was our opera house's own little maestro ushering out such soft notes. A bit pitchy, I say so myself, but understandable considering the decimal level you were singing at._

 _With this new information, let me present my latest command. Allow me to take you under my tutelage. I am confident that I could make you a star and rescue you from that lowly orchestra pit. Your voice deserves to be heard by the entire world and together we can accomplish this._

 _In regards to that, please meet me in the chapel tomorrow night at a quarter past 9 and not a minute later. You will find my patience lacking._

 _Until then,_

 _E._

Christine choked on a piece of green as her eyes scanned the last paragraph once more. Was her mind deceiving her? Did the composer truly believe her voice to be that of an angel? She scoffed at herself, remembering that last time she attempted to sing Il Muto. The man was daft is he truly thought she was the woman he heard in the cellars. Although, the idea of singing once more had her smiling with glee. She knew deep down she longed to sing, but it was too painful without her father near.

Letting out a sigh, she pushed her hair back away from her face and reread the letter once more. She half expected it to start writing on itself again, but nothing appeared and the ink felt dry and cold. IT hadn't escaped her thoughts that he had once again entered her apartment without a trace. Inwardly, she knew she should be afraid, but it was becoming such a routine she wasn't sure she cared anymore. She figured he would have taken advantage of the situation by now and harmed her in some way, but undoubtedly, he's proven her wrong.

She ran her fingers over the manuscript, trying to memorize the curves and shapes. Christine smiled to herself. After many nights pondering about her sanity, she would have physical proof before her in merely 24 hours. The elusive composer would finally let himself be known to her and end her curiosity. Suddenly, her bed looked at her with longing and she almost tripped over herself in her haste to join it. The quicker she fell into a slumber, the sooner she would see the man called E.

The next morning, Christine was bewildered. Every single moment of her day had been nothing short of irksome. Her shower had been cold and the power went out, living her with sopping wet hair and ripped jeans. Most of her clothes sat wet in the washing machine leaving her with lounge clothes on her back and a tank top. Her briefcase was a mess and her purse had fallen over spilling its contents in the car as she slammed on her brakes to withhold from running a red light.

By the time she had reached the opera house, her hair had dried into a rat's nest and her clothing wrinkled. Christine had twenty minutes to set up and begin rehearsals and she couldn't seem to find her composition book. Panicking, she emptied her purse onto the floor and began to sort out its contents.

"Maestro? May I be of some assistance?"

Christine looked up to see a frilly black dress hanging in her face. A small woman stood in front of her with a hand held out and a humored smile rested on her face. Christine traced her eyes over the woman's figure and realized it was Madam Giry.

"Ah, hello. Please excuse me, today has been nothing but trouble for me." Christine let out a laugh as the woman helped her to her feet.

"Wee all have those dayz." Madame Giry added as she brushed off the Christine's shoulders. "You must be more careful, my dear."

Christine found herself in awe of the woman. Madame Giry was most likely in her 40s and here she stood strong as a teenager. Yet her mothering attitude proved her years. Christine felt like she could trust her, even the composer had recommended her for guidance.

"Moi vey! Have you never seen such a wonderful dancer?" Madame Giry stomped her staff and pointed towards the young blonde pirouetting on the stage.

"I can't say I have, madame. I'm not well-versed in dance." Christine shrank a little under the woman's stern gaze.

"That there dancer is my lovely Meg. You both share equal years and should get to know one another." Her cheeks pinched into a smile, yet Christine felt unnerved by the underlying words echoing within her eyes.

"I shall, Madam." Christine affirmed, straightening her back a bit more. The woman nodded, shifting a bit on her feet. Her eyes never left Christine, seeming to be lost in deep thought. "If there is nothing else, Madam. I must be going-" Her shoulder was suddenly clenched within Madam Giry's grip, her fingers pressing into the bones and Christine locked eyes with her.

"You're a smart girl- that much I can see. But you are much too curious for this opera house. Stop your nonsense now, before you get someone hurt." Madam Giry released Christine's shoulder, sweeping away in her skirts towards the stage and her daughter.

Christine simply stood, unable to register exactly what she was feeling. Grant it, a bit startled, yet truly not unexpected. After all, the composer had told her Madam Giry was one to trust. And hell, maybe it was about time Christine allowed herself to make a friend.


End file.
